


Survive

by sunshinestealer



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person, The Splendid Angharad Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5277263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinestealer/pseuds/sunshinestealer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nux shares a glance, and a conversation with Capable that leaves him wanting more out of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survive

It’s a cold night in the desert. You’re all huddled at the side of the War Rig, hoping to have positioned it far enough away from Immortan Joe’s fleet. You’re all behind a good set of sand dunes, at least.

Your blood bag is a man of few words, but he’s been able to find a paraffin lighter. With a little bit of oil siphoned from Furiosa’s tightly controlled supply, it’s lit. Safer than a fire, and involves less work. You try to catch Max’s eye. He merely grunts at you, a tight frown.

Okay, you suppose that perhaps if you were in his position, even as one of the Unelected, you would object to being strapped up as a hood ornament and forced into the weakness that comes with heavy blood loss. But you’ve endured worse with the War Boys, really. You’re not going to make friends with him. 

As wavering as it is, your loyalty is still with Joe, as demonstrated by the thrashing, crazy berserker state you went into before you were subdued. Before the girls shouted at you for your beliefs. Using some words you couldn’t understand, from book-learning. You tried to argue with them, but maybe it was best to keep your mouth shut. Follow Max’s example. Especially now you know the horrid abuse they suffered.

All War Boys know that life is hell. There’s no-one to comfort you after you’re harshly derided or even shoved around by those of a higher rank. There’s nobody to make things better if you get into a physical fight, except for a trip to the Organic Mechanic. But… your lives are so different. Furiosa refused to leave the Citadel, and proved herself as a driver. Show enough skill at something, and eventually you’ll be honoured by your brothers’ adulation. At least, that’s how it works in your mind.

You fiddle with your fingers, more used to tweaking engines than fidgeting as you ponder on about the social order in a world where everyone’s gone completely mad. The Immortan Joe possesses the closest thing to a civilisation for many hundreds of miles in the desert wastes. There’s (rationed) food, water, medical care… It’s no wonder people gravitate towards it — better to be in a crushingly miserable society here than be all alone with nothing but your maddened thoughts for company.

Capable peers up at you, pulling her veil a little closer over her head. Conversation seems to have come to a complete standstill. Furiosa started by drawing little lines in the sand, to describe how the War Rig would be transporting you all to safety the next day. Something about ‘Many Mothers.’ Then she retired for the night, hauling herself up into the truck for some rest. 

It makes sense to stay out on watch, especially if any reinforcements arrive for Joe. Or, worse, if he uses his oratory skills to coax some rogue Buzzards into joining forces with the war party. You’re not quite sure why the Wives are sitting out here with defiant scowls on their faces. Maybe they’re saying they don’t need to sit up in the truck, protected by the steel and pinned on either side by Max and Furiosa. Or maybe they just want a change of scenery. You’re probably overthinking things. Not that you ever even have to think normally. Just _do_.

Do what you’re told, and don’t question the wisdom of those higher up than yourself. When you finally became a War Boy, you thought that was it — no longer were you a mere Pup, who had to run around doing odd jobs, standing around your elders as they fixed the cars and barked the teachings of the V8 cult at you. Even then, there are still Lieutenants and Captains and other higher-ups. The Immortan’s own two sons outrank you, despite Corpus’ physical weakness and Rictus’ mental shortcomings. Even as admittedly dim as you are, you could run rings around the latter.

Conversation is still limited between your group. Max grunts, and the women whisper amongst themselves. Straining your sensitive hearing, you can hear the Dag muttering about the next day, in that overly fast tone she speaks in. (Her mind works pretty fast, according to what Capable’s said. And she’s always been ‘a little bit weird’.) Her companions nod a little as they process what she’s said, but don’t offer any comments of their own.

Capable has edged just that little closer to you. “You all right?”

Well, no, you’re not. You’re still suffering through sweats, fits of roiling nausea and short breath. Being in a high stress situation like… well, pretty much the past few days, hasn’t meant Larry and Barry have decided to stop their relentless squeezes around your windpipe. Plus, you don’t have your blood bag for transfusions any more — he’s just sat over there looking like he’d string your intestines from a pole if you even thought about reattaching the catheter.

Sitting down like this and being useless is one of the worst things. Like all those trips to the Organic Mechanic, where he couldn’t figure out what was wrong with you. At first. Then he came up with a prognosis that you wouldn’t be around much longer, and would be away from active duty for a while. Not that you listened to him. No such thing as sitting around and waiting for death for a War Boy.

“…I’m okay.” 

At least you can ignore the sickness when you’re working with your hands, driving fast on the Fury Road and spiritedly participating in the cult with your brothers in faith. The day you got caught up in this mess was the day you were at your lowest ebb. Better to go out with a bang and wake up as a hero in Valhalla. There’s stories of those who died as weaklings outside of battle, getting trapped in a hell with snake venom dripping constantly on their head. Something like that.

There was a story you liked about how some giant snake squeezed the life out of the world, causing the apocalypse to break loose. The fault doesn’t lay with mankind’s overuse of guzzoline, ripping the world to shreds out of the chaos that ensued in the Oil Wars. The V8 priests keep you too ignorant of that. All a War Pup ever needs to know is how Immortan Joe lived, died, then lived again. A hero borne unto mankind in its most hopeless place. And you’re all extremely honoured to be in his presence, no matter where you came from or what you’ve done in the past.

Capable places her hand over yours. You shudder at the contact, but try your best to mask it. No signs of weakness, ever. You feel a convulsion around your windpipe, but for some odd reason, you don’t think Larry and Barry are responsible for it this time.

“Yeah, you see…” She continues, “I don’t think any of us are okay. Or even have been.”

Despite yourself, you link your oil-tinged fingers in hers. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? You’ve spent all of your life living for the glory of death among the camaraderie of the War Boys. Never have you thought of what would happen if a female showed interest. Is this interest, though? Or is Capable just trying to defuse an awkward atmosphere by talking with somebody other than a Wife for a change?

She offers a sweet smile, and yeah, it’s not Larry and Barry choking you this time. It’s another feeling altogether. A weird sensation that makes your stomach feel like it’s flipping over.

“I mean, look at you. You’re just a dead guy walking.”

You wince at those words — almost what the Organic Mechanic told you just before you left with Slit. You’re used to getting insulted and pushed around. Your brothers treat teasing as a rite of passage, really. Weaklings get turfed out of the prestigious order if they can’t prove their mettle by fighting or showing their skills in the auto-shop. 

However, you’re not quite sure how to process it from a woman. Does it mean she still likes you? Well, clearly, going by how her hand lingers in yours.

“I am.” You reply. “May as well die historic. Leave this world for the next.”

“Is there proof?”

“Huh?”

She laughs lightly. “I mean, is there proof that there’s another world after this one?”

“I-it’s been seen. In visions.”

“Then that means it _must_ be true, if some guy saw it in a dream!”

You grit your teeth. What does _she_ know of the V8? Of the holy scriptures penned by those in your society who were literate enough to record Immortan Joe’s holy writ?

She continues, taking a different tack. “What’s it look like, then?”

“It’s like the big hall in the Citadel.” You suddenly cough, turning away to spit up some phlegm. “…A hall for all the warriors. And it’s eternal, and um. You get to drink and have fun and…”

Capable raises an eyebrow. “I dunno if I’d like that.”

You look back at Max, who’s almost just staring out into space with a pained expression. The likes of which you’ve seen a few times before. Nightmares that don’t give two shits if you’re actually conscious or not. Some War Boys continually suffer from them. You’re not about to go and offer him comfort though. That’s not how it’s done in your world.

The Wives are still chatting amongst themselves, though it’s mostly just Angharad and Toast now. Cheedo is sitting silently. The Dag has laid back a little, skimming her hands through the sand like it’s the most soothing thing in the world for her to do. She’s focused on looking up at the stars, muttering the names of constellations.

“I’m not sure what happens in the next life. But it’s probably not going to be a big drinking hall.”

“That’s what you believe.”

“That’s what I _know_.” She shrugs, taking her hand out of yours. You miss the warmth, before she stands up, adjusting her veil again. “I’m going to be turning in for the night. Dunno if I should sleep out here or in the truck.”

“…Truck,” you offer. You don’t want to watch over her as she sleeps. That brief hand contact was enough for your weakened heart to skip a beat.

“If you say so,” she shrugs. “Help keep watch or whatever then, okay?”

“Okay.” You watch as she walks off, suddenly noticing how every step she takes makes your stomach lurch. In a good way. Not in the sickened way you’ve become used to all these years.

She steps into the War Rig, and waves gently at you. You wave back, confused. What is she doing and why is this happening to you? You’re devoted to being a War Boy, driving for Immortan Joe’s glory and dying historic. You’d never even thought of girls. You’ve been drilled to do your service as a War Pup, become a mechanic, and then a War Boy. Your life is active military duty, not fawning over some female.

But… still. Can’t deny it, there’s a spark of _something_. Maybe if you both survive this, you can live in that world with Many Mothers or wherever Furiosa was planning on going. It’ll be a long, long drive, considering she’s only relying on memory. Even then, you have no idea if it’ll be a place of safety, or if Immortan Joe will find reinforcements and just siege the place. Then you’ll have to ask his forgiveness on bended knee, if he allows you to live on as a War Boy. But Furiosa is nothing if not fierce — and she insists this far-off place full of green stuff is the safest place to be in the whole of the wasteland.

Might as well live to see it.


End file.
